


Love Letters

by gracefultree



Category: White Collar
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-08-23 19:32:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8339962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracefultree/pseuds/gracefultree
Summary: It started with a birthday card, sent to his house with a prison postmark and signed simply "Neal."





	1. Beginnings

It started with a birthday card, sent to his house with a prison postmark and signed simply "Neal." 

The second card, also a birthday card, arrived at his house with a Manhattan postmark and signed "Peter." He might not have noticed, if not for Elizabeth's offhand comment to a friend about getting two cards this year, speculating that Peter was trying to make up for missing the day the year before. The FBI found no evidence linking the card to Neal, but Peter had a hunch. 

The third card, an anniversary card, also signed "Peter" but unsealed, appeared on his desk the day before his anniversary, which he'd forgotten about in the drama of the current case. Peter stared at the card for a long time before setting it aside. Unlike the birthday card, there were distinct hesitation lines in the handwriting, far too obvious to be anything but deliberate, though he knew El wouldn’t have noticed. Neal had his handwriting down pat, even from prison without a sample to copy from. 

Peter sighed, rubbed his hand over his face and picked up his phone. 

.

.

.

"This is completely unacceptable!" Peter declared, dropping the third card onto the table between them. It rested in a sealed plastic evidence bag, marked with the FBI file number for Neal Caffrey. There hadn’t been any prints, but Peter _knew._ “You can't go bringing my wife into your games! What were you thinking?" 

Neal remained calm as he sat in the prison visiting room, dressed in the same orange uniform as the other prisoners. He picked up the card in its bag. "I wanted to meet you," he answered. "You know, see behind the mask of my arresting officer." 

"Oh, you did, did you?" 

"Yeah." Neal paused. "Come on, Peter, it's so boring in here! Can't I have a pen pal?"

"Your pen pal will not be my wife while you pretend to be me!" 

"You could be my pen pal," Neal suggested. 

"I will not be your pen pal. I arrested you!" 

"That's why you'd be perfect. You understand me. We can have a conversation that's not about who's gonna shank who or what the mystery meat is today." 

Peter smirked to himself, covering his mouth even though he was turned away from Caffrey. He liked Neal. He respected him. And, if he were being honest, he found his brash confidence surprisingly attractive. He wondered briefly what would happen if he were to take Neal up on his suggestion. What if they wrote each other, exchanged letters? They could be ... Friends, maybe. 

He looked back at Neal and saw a career criminal. A man with an easy trickster's smile. A chayote. 

He was the German shepherd, strong, reliable, hard-working. 

What would it be like to run free in the desert? 

"At least come visit me every so often if you won't write," Neal persisted. 

"Why me?" Peter asked, curious. 

"You caught me. That makes you special.” 

"I don't buy it." 

Neal looked away, debating what to say. "Let me write you once more. I'll explain it then." 

"You do realize that everything you send me will go into your file, don't you?" 

"One chance, Peter. Please." 

Peter rubbed the back of his neck and counted to ten before answering. "Fine. But you have to send it the regular way. No subterfuge." 

"None. I promise," Neal said, his voice sincere. Peter didn't buy it for a second. 

.

.

.

The letter arrived at his desk one week later. It had the prison postmark, and came in an evidence bag, already gone over by others at the FBI. His boss Hughes handed it to Peter with a frown of distaste. 

"You want to tell me why Neal Caffrey is sending you poetry?" 

Peter picked up the letter and looked it over. "These are Shakespeare's sonnets," Peter answered, though he could already spot a word or two that weren't in the original. How could the kids downstairs have missed that? 

“Why is he sending them?" 

"He said he wanted a pen pal," Peter explained. 

"No. You shut this down, Peter, or you'll have OCR on your ass." 

"Yes, sir, I'll take care of it." 

.

.

.

He brought the letter home. Elizabeth found him cross-referencing the original sonnets with Neal's. 

"What is it, hon?" She asked. 

"It's code. It has to be! He wouldn't have forgotten the words. The substitutions mean something." 

"Love poems, though? Do you think he's attracted to you? I thought he had a girlfriend." 

"He does. Kate." Peter looked up from his work. “We used his desire to find her as a way to catch him.” 

“Well, I don’t blame him for being attracted to you,” she declared. 

Peter smiled and put down his pen to kiss her. 

.

.

.

“Is anyone hurting you?” 

Neal tilted his head and regarded Peter with surprise. “No. Why?” 

“You’re too pretty for a place like this.“ 

Neal smiled before answering. “You do the right guy the right favor at the right time, you get his protection,” Neal explained. “I made it clear that if anyone raped me no one would get my services. No one. Enough of them knew my reputation to hold back the others. Now, well, I can’t exactly tell you what I’m doing, but…” 

“No, I don’t want to know,” Peter said with an audible sigh of relief. “I just wanted to make sure no one’s hurting you.” 

“Why, Peter, I didn’t know you cared,” Neal said with a flirty lilt to his voice. His eyes sparkled, and Peter was reminded again of the chayote. 

“Enough, Caffrey.” But Peter’s own hesitant smile took away any bite from his barked words. 

“Did you get my letter?” 

“Yeah. The Harvard boys downstairs missed the code, but I figured it out,” Peter answered. 

"You tell anyone about it?"

Peter made a scoffing sound. "Even a convict is allowed a _little_ privacy," he said. "I can't imagine what it would be like if I knew every word I wrote El would be poured over by a dozen people before she even got to see it." 

“And?” Neal asked, leaning forward.

Peter’s smile became a little less hesitant. “I don’t know why I’m saying this, but, yes, I’ll write to you on the condition that you only write Kate through the regular channels.” Neal’s expression brightened considerably. “You made a good case. But don’t take advantage of my generosity, here. You misstep, and I’m done. You write her secretly, I'm done.” 

“I really appreciate it, Peter,” Neal said, moving to put a hand on his arm before stopping halfway, his shackles clanking between his hands. Peter took pity on him and patted his hand. 

“I know you do, Neal.” 

“Any parting advice?” 

“Keep your head down, your nose clean, and _don’t_ do anything stupid.” 

.

.

.


	2. Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neal Escapes from Prison to find... Kate?

Neal knew Peter would find him. He trusted that Peter would find him, and that Peter would be the one to come into the apartment to arrest him. He hoped that Peter would be alone.

Even though they’d only met a few times, he recognized Peter’s footsteps and let out a relieved breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. 

“It looks like Kate moved out. She leave you a message in that?” Peter asked, indicating the wine bottle in Neal’s hand. 

“The bottle _is_ the message,” Neal answered. 

“It’s been a while,” Peter said, stepping closer. “You carrying?” 

“You know I don’t like guns,” Neal answered, setting the bottle down and getting to his feet. 

They stared at each other for a long moment. Peter spoke, his voice warm and teasing and tired. “They ask me, what makes a guy like you pull a boneheaded escape with four months to go.” 

“Cut the crap, Peter,” Neal blurted. “We both know why I’m here.” He moved into Peter’s personal space and stopped, his face inches from Peter’s. “And why _you’re_ here. We’ve danced around this for years. It’s time to do something about it.” He leaned forward, pressing his lips to Peter’s. 

It was probably the hottest kiss of Neal’s entire life. Peter grabbed him, pulled him close, shoved his tongue in Neal’s mouth. Neal opened his mouth willingly, whimpering desperately for more. His fingers scrambled to find a handhold on Peter’s suit jacket. 

“Four months, Neal,” Peter hissed. “Four months and we could be in a coffee shop or a restaurant or anywhere else but here. I have to arrest you again,” he added, his voice strange in its misery. 

“I know. I just had to see if this was real,” Neal replied, kissing him more fully. For a few desperate minutes, all Neal knew was Peter’s lips against his, his hands in his hair, his hard body against his. 

Peter pulled away after far too short a time. 

“We can’t do this. Not here. Not now.” 

“You know I didn’t really escape for Kate. She was an excuse. I needed to see you. _Needed to_ , Peter.” 

“We can’t do this,” Peter repeated. “I’m a married man. A happily married man.” 

“Peter…” 

Peter lifted his walkie-talkie. “All clear. Subject identified and unarmed.” 

_“Roger that,”_ a man said on the other end. 

“Are we surrounded?” Neal asked, stepping back, giving himself some distance from Peter. “How many?” 

“Including my agents and the marshals? All of them, I think. What’s the message?” Peter asked, indicating the bottle. 

“Goodbye.” 

“Women,” Peter said with a sigh. “They’re gonna give you another four years for this.” 

“I don’t care.” 

“Neal…” 

“Is this a goodbye, too, Peter? You’ve had your taste and now it’s back inside for me? Four more years? For what? More letters?” Neal paused. “Didn’t the letters mean anything?” 

“Of course they did!” Peter exclaimed. “But now, now’s not good.” 

“Will it ever be good?” 

Peter rubbed a hand over his face. “I don’t know.” He looked up. “If you’d waited until your sentence was done, waited until you were free again… I don’t know. But it’d be a lot better than this. A lot more likely than this.” 

“That kiss —“ 

Neal broke off when he heard the marshals on the stairs. His eyes flickered around and caught on something. He plucked a thread from Peter’s shoulder. “You know what this is?” 

“No idea. I got it from a case I was working on before they yanked me to look for you.” 

“You think you’ll catch him?” 

“Don’t know… He’s good. Almost as good as you.” 

“Don’t go falling in love with him, too,” Neal muttered under his breath. Peter scowled. “If I tell you what this is right now, is it worth a meeting?” 

“What?” 

“Meet me in one week, back in prison. Just a meeting. No — none of this other stuff.” 

Peter searched his expression. “Okay.” 

Several US Marshals burst into the room, guns raised. Neal raised his hands to show he didn’t have anything. “It’s the security strip for the new Canadian $100 bill,” he told Peter as they handcuffed him. “Remember, one week.” 

“One week,” Peter agreed. He bent and picked up the bottle from Kate and watched as the marshals ushered Neal from the apartment. He held the bottle under his arm and pulled out his wallet. After rifling through it, he pulled out a small picture of his wife. “I’m sorry, El,” he said to the picture. “I’ll fix this. I promise.” 


	3. Agreement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neal waits to hear if Peter accepted his proposal.

Nine days after the meeting with Peter, and Neal was beginning to doubt. He doubted that Peter would look into his suggestion. He doubted that Peter would respond to his most recent (and fervent) letter. He doubted that Peter still cared about him.

Not that he’d stopped caring, exactly, just that he’d realized that there was no place in his life for Neal. No place for the man he’d chased for three years. No place for the man he’d sent behind bars, the man he’d been writing to in secret for close to four years. No place for a prison pen pal with whom he’d fallen in love… not that Peter had admitted to those feelings. 

Neal still loved Peter. He was sure of it. The lack of a real sense of loss when Kate broke up with him was the first clue. The kiss was the second. How much his chest hurt when he thought about another four years without the ability to see or hear from Peter was the third. 

He’d sent his letter the day after he was back in prison. He confessed all his feelings, all his hopes and dreams, going just short of using the big L-word. He’d told Peter that he didn’t expect him to leave Elizabeth for him, that he didn’t want him to leave Elizabeth. He drew a picture of Peter and Elizabeth, sitting on a couch cuddled up together, with Neal on Peter’s other side, his head on Peter’s shoulder. Peter’s hand rested on Neal’s knee, but most of his focus was on Elizabeth. He thought he made it clear that he wanted to be a _part_ of Peter’s life, not the center. 

Peter had been all business at the meeting. He hadn’t mentioned their four years of correspondence or their increasingly complex relationship. Of course, they both knew that the meeting was filmed, probably with sound, now that Neal had broken out once, so he hadn’t expected anything, but… he’d hoped there might be a brief note left in the papers Peter rifled through and returned. Or at least an intense look of some kind, simply to reassure him of Peter’s regard. 

Nothing. 

He heard Bobby walking down the hall, telling everyone it was lights out. He switched off the lightbulb above his head, not in the mood to talk to Bobby, even though he was as close to a friend as one could get with the guards that tried to keep track of one’s every movement. 

“Neal, special delivery,” Bobby said, dropping a rolled-up sock into his cell. 

“Thanks, Bobby,” Neal answered, grabbing the sock. He switched on his light again. 

“You got five minutes, then I better see your light out when I come back.” 

“You will, Bobby. Don’t worry.” 

Bobby walked on, whistling. 

Neal hastily unrolled the sock and pulled out the crumpled letter. Typed and addressed to a PO box in Queens, there was no return address, though the postmark indicated midtown. The only thing out of the ordinary was the ’Neal’ penciled in the corner under where the stamp had been. He knew that handwriting. 

“Peter,” he breathed, tearing open the letter. Inside was a small sheet of paper. 

_“Neal, I’ll pick you up when your first sentence is finished. We’ll try it your way. Details to follow via official channels only. Until then, no more contact. Tell Bobby to stop renting his PO boxes in the names of dead relatives. The Bureau will be expunging them in a few days. Peter”_

Neal felt his lips forming a huge smile. Peter was willing to try the anklet idea! Peter wanted to see him! Peter was looking out for him by warning him about the PO boxes being looking into. Peter still wanted him! 

He read the note several more times until he had it memorized, then tore it into tiny pieces. He’d flush them over the course of the next few days. 

Now all he had to do was warn Bobby and wait. He was good at waiting. Most of the time.


	4. First Day Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neal is out of prison and Peter gives him a ride to where he's supposed to be staying.

Neal couldn’t keep his expression from turning sour at the noxious accommodations Peter found him. The motel was filthy, the clientele repulsive, and besides that, there was probably no internet and definitely no privacy. He glanced over at Peter, but the man’s expression was as closed off as it had been since he picked him up outside prison. They’d barely spoken in the hour since meeting again, and Neal had been bouncing in his seat with excitement and anxiety to be back in Peter’s presence again. Not that Peter had answered any of his questions or comments with more than a word or two. Still… they were in the same place at the same time with no cameras…

“This in Neal Caffrey,” Peter said to the man at the front desk. “My office called earlier.”

The man gave Neal a crooked, nasty smile that was probably supposed to be intimidating. “There you go… Snake Eyes.”

“Thank you,” Neal muttered, accepting the key. He pulled Peter down the hall. “Can I talk to you for a second?” The manager swatted a fly, loudly, and Neal pulled Peter farther away. “A little farther down. Do I have to stay here?” he asked plaintively.

“Cowboy up. It cost $700 a month to house you on the inside, so that’s what it costs here. For the money, this is as good as it gets.”

Neal stared at him, aghast at the prospect of staying in such a place. Inspiration hit. “Can’t I stay with you? You’re my handler, right? That way you’ll always know where I am.” He paused. “I’ll even help with chores and walking the dog.”

“You are not staying with me and _my wife_. Even if that weren’t a clusterfuck of epic proportions, I doubt El would approve without some serious conversations.” Peter grabbed his arm and pulled him down the hall to his “room.” They opened the door to find a shabby motel room, though it seemed cleaner than Neal would have expected. Neal walked in to examine it. Peter stood in the doorway with his hands on his hips, having dropped the accordion folder full of papers on the floor just inside. “Besides, this place is discreet. We need discreet.”

“Discreet?” Neal asked, turning back to Peter to find him just a breath away.

“Discreet,” Peter affirmed, kissing him.

Peter kissed him, and Neal didn’t mind that he felt like the woman, holding on to Peter’s broad shoulders, feeling his hard muscles and commanding body language. He didn’t care that Peter took the lead, that Peter shoved him against the dresser, that Peter grabbed his ass and pulled one of Neal’s legs up to wrap it around his waist. He clung to Peter, gasping at the startling sensation of another man’s penis hard against his thigh and the brush of coarse stubble that Peter, the son of a bricklayer, would never be able to shave away.

“Discreet. I like discreet,” Neal mumbled as Peter broke off the kiss to bite gently at his neck. He shivered at the sensation. He shifted, pulling Peter closer. He let his head fall back as Peter continued down his neck, finding his Adam’s apple and then the joint of his shoulders. He opened his eyes a crack.

“The door, Peter. Close the door!”

Peter muttered a curse and turned to slam it shut, only to find himself pressed into it immediately afterwards, Neal taking over for a moment. Neal kissed his mouth, his neck, behind his ear.

“No marks,” Peter hissed at the feel of Neal’s teeth on his ear.

“Not where anyone can see,” Neal replied, running a hand over Peter’s clothed chest.

“That means nowhere!” Peter barked. “Elizabeth —“

“I got it, I got it. You have an active sex life.” Neal captured Peter’s lips again. “I just want to be _part_ of it.”

“Oh, you’ll be part of it,” Peter promised, starting to back Neal towards the bed. Neal reached down and cupped Peter’s erection through his pants. Peter growled.

“Hey there, tiger, no need to growl,” Neal teased, giving him a gentle squeeze. He had no idea what kind of pressure Peter would like, having himself as his only reference. Perhaps Peter liked it stronger?

Peter pulled his lips free. “I didn’t growl. I thought that was you.”

“Not me,” Neal said, taking another step backwards.

The growl came again and they both turned towards the sound. A large ferocious-looking dog was settling himself onto the coverlet of the bed. He bared his teeth at them in a canine grin.

Neal and Peter looked at each other, then back to the dog, then back at each other.

“Go, shoo!” Peter called, waving at the dog with one arm, the other still around Neal’s waist. The dog growled again and barked before laying more comfortably on the bed.

Peter and Neal stared at each other for a moment.

“We’ll find you another place,” Peter said.

“Yeah, that would be great. Thanks,” Neal answered. He kissed Peter quickly and pulled free of the embrace. Peter grabbed the folder and they walked out together, Neal tossing the key onto the main desk. “Never mind,” he said with a wink to the guy.

“So we’ll go to the Bureau and look up something better,” Peter was saying as Neal caught up to him on the sidewalk.

“The Bureau? You can’t take me over there like this! I’m wearing my entire wardrobe!”

Peter gave him a definite once-over, taking in the mussed hair and white prison-issued t-shirt. He smirked. “You like thrift shops. There’s a thrift shop on the corner,” he declared.

“Peter, no… you can’t mean that?”

“No, don’t start.”

“But…”

“I’ve gotten you a good deal here. Don’t lose it because of vanity.”

“But…”

“Come on.” Peter took hold of Neal’s shoulder and propelled him down the street. After a few steps, he dropped his hand and Neal slipped back to walk alongside him.

Inside the thrift store, Peter stood back while Neal looked around. Nothing seemed at all appropriate. Neal sighed. The bell over the door jingled, and Peter held it open for an older black woman with a large pile of clothes in her arms. He took it from her and helped her to the counter.

“Peter, what’s my budget?” Neal asked over his shoulder, holding a barely passable suit jacket with a sticker price of $20.

“Including the $43 you took from my wallet? $43,” Peter answered. He was clearly enjoying himself, and Neal cursed his unconscious habit of knicking cash from everyone’s wallets.

“I’ve come to donate these,” the woman said to the clerk.

“Men’s suits,” the clerk said, lifting a jacket from the pile.

“Those are fantastic!” Neal exclaimed, spotting them from across the store. He walked over for a closer look.

“They belonged to my late husband,” the woman explained. “Byron. He really did have great taste in clothes.”

“May I?” Neal asked, reaching for the jacket from the clerk. He examined the label. “A Devore!” He immediately took off his overcoat and tried it on. “Look, Peter, a Devore!” He grinned at Peter.

“Yes,” the woman said. “He won it from Sy himself.”

“Won it?”

“He beat him at backdoor draw.”

“Your husband played poker with Sy Devore?”

“He certainly did. And so did I,” she added with a wink. “The guys would let me sit in once in a while on a hand. And I was good. I’m glad to see you appreciate these. I was hoping someone would. I have a whole closetful of them.”

“A whole closet?” Neal asked, his voice filled with excitement. He shared a look with Peter, who rolled his eyes.

“Well, it’s actually more of a guest room, but I haven’t used it for anything but storage for a while.” She touched the suit. “Byron used to wear this one when we went dancing. Let’s just say the neighborhood was a bit nicer back then.”

“You live nearby?”

“Not far,” she said. “I’m June.”

“Neal,” he answered, shaking her hand. “And that guy lurking back there is Peter.”

“Agent Peter Burke,” Peter said, also shaking her hand. “FBI.”

“FBI? You must have an interesting life,” June commented. “Why don’t you gather those things so we can go see what else might fit Neal? Come along, you two.”

Peter knitted his eyebrows together as he watched June take Neal’s arm and wave back at him to carry the clothing she’d been about to donate. With an unhappy sigh, he rearranged his folders and did as she said. It was going to be a long day.

.

.

.

Peter hated shopping for clothing with Elizabeth. It always felt like a trap, one where the rules changed all the time and there was never a right answer. He had a few things he could say that he’d developed over the years, like “that looks beautiful on you, hon,” or “that dress really brings out the color of your eyes,” but other than that, he was at a loss where it came to women’s fashion.

Men’s fashion, on the other hand…

He was still at a loss. He bought his shirts by size, his ties by color, and his suits off the rack. Neal, it seemed, was more like El where clothes were concerned.

“You look like a cartoon,” he blurted when he watched Neal coming down the grand staircase in an outfit June picked out from her husband’s closet. He doubted that was the right thing to say, especially with June sitting next to him on the couch drinking espresso, but Neal didn’t seem to mind.

“This is classic Rat Pack. This is a Devore.” Neal picked up a black fedora and flipped it onto his head. He adjusted it to a tilted, rakish angle.

“Sorry, Dino. Will you stop with the hat?”

Neal made a fake frown before bursting into a huge grin. “You should see this stuff, Peter. It’s amazing! And the room, it has a view.”

“A view?”

“Come on,” Neal cajoled, reaching out to take Peter’s hand and drag him up the stairs. “You’ll love it.”

Peter followed, only half-reluctantly. He was jealous of the house, jealous of the clothing, jealous of the beautiful young woman, June’s granddaughter, who stayed at the house from time to time when not at art school. More than that, however, he wasn’t sure how Neal had managed to ingratiate himself so quickly with June that she’d offer her guest room and all of her late husband’s clothing to a perfect stranger. He’d tried to warn June that Neal was a convicted felon, but she’d simply smiled and informed him that her husband had been one once, too, and that she firmly believed that people could change.

At the room, which was more of a studio apartment, Peter sat through Neal changing into several other suits, matching ties to shirts, and oohing and ahhing over every new detail he discovered.

“How about this blue?” Neal asked, holding a shirt over his bare chest. Peter had been trying to avoid looking at Neal when he was half-dressed, but Neal seemed determined to make him see. After the passionate kisses earlier, Peter couldn’t blame him. It wasn’t Neal’s fault that he was having second thoughts. Again.

“It brings out the color of your eyes,” Peter said without thinking.

“I bet you say that to your wife all the time so you can get back to your crossword,” Neal pouted.

“No, I mean it,” Peter insisted, getting to his feet and crossing the room towards Neal. He took the shirt and held it away from Neal for a moment, then brought it back. “It makes your eyes even more blue,” he said, looking away because he hadn’t wanted to say anything so romantic or embarrassing so quickly, no matter the truth to the statement.

“Peter, are you blushing?” Neal asked, tossing the shirt over a chair and taking Peter’s face in his hands. “You are!”

“Stop it,” Peter protested. “It’s just — Why do I want you so much?” Peter wondered, tilting his head to kiss Neal. He shifted his grip on him, running his hands up and down Neal’s bare back, learning the play of his muscles. “I keep thinking it’s just in my imagination,” Peter mumbled though the kisses. “I keep thinking, I can’t want you like this, I can’t do this to El, but then you’re here, in front of me…”

“It’s not your imagination,” Neal whispered. “It’s real, whatever it is, but we don’t have to —“

“Neal? Peter? I brought some iced tea to help with the fashion show,” June said, pushing the door open without knocking. All three of them froze. June set the tray in her hands down on the empty kitchen table. “I’ll see about a lock for the door,” she said with an understanding smile on her face, turning to leave.

“It’s not what it looks like,” Peter blurted, backing away from Neal as if he were on fire.

June turned back and gave Peter a penetrating look that took in his whole person in an instant. It also told him to stop implying that she was too dumb to see what was right in front of her. “I don’t judge people, Peter. Life is complicated, and I’ve found that it rarely goes exactly how we’d like it to.” She gave Neal a similar assessment. “Byron used to say that life was too short and that we had to take what joy we could when given the opportunity. He had a mistress, you know. She was my best friend.”

Peter stood there, blinking and trying to process what she was saying.

“Men like my husband, they had mistresses and lovers. Not all of them were female.”

“What happened?” Neal asked. He picked up the shirt and put it on, starting to button it.

“One of his rivals put out a hit on her, thought she was too close. That’s when he turned this from a speakeasy to a guest room.”

“It was for her,” Peter guessed.

“We all lived together for years,” June said. “She couldn’t stay after he passed.”

“Is she…?”

“Comes for a visit now and then. We’re still friends, though not as close as we used to be.”

“June, I’m sorry,” Peter said.

“It’s all right, Peter. Keep that story in mind,” she added, giving his wedding ring a significant look. “It might come in handy when you talk to your wife.” She left, closing the door behind her.

Neal and Peter looked at each other for a moment. Neal put his hands in his pockets. “So… I’m your mistress?” he finally asked, his eyes twinkling with mirth as he rocked on his heels.

“Not yet,” Peter said, his face closed off. He walked around the room to sit on the couch where he put his head in his hands. “What am I _doing_ , Neal? What are _we_ doing?”

Neal sat beside him and rested a hand on his knee. “I don’t know, but I want you to know, I’m right here with you the entire way.”

Peter looked up. “I’m married.”

“I know. I want you to stay married.” At Peter’s look of disbelief, he continued. “It’s like I said in the last letter. I want you to stay with Elizabeth. You wouldn’t be Peter Burke if you weren’t with her.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“I’ll be your mistress, Peter,” Neal said, dropping his voice into a seductive purr. He wanted Peter, wanted to be a part of his life, and he knew he’d be willing to call himself anything to help Peter accept him this way. “I’d make a great mistress!”

Peter smiled, turning his head to look at Neal. He grabbed the back of his neck and squeezed gently. “You’re certainly pretty enough to be a mistress,” he murmured in a teasing voice. “And I suppose four years of love letters have to mean something.”

Neal felt his breath freeze in his throat. “You thought those were love letters?” he asked in a whisper. He watched the smile fade from Peter’s face at the surprise in his voice. God, he wanted to see Peter smiling again! “Because that’s what I thought they were, too,” he said quickly. “Of course that’s what they were!”

Peter shook his head and let go of Neal. “I’ve gotta go. I’ve taken too long as it is. I’ll pick you up at 7am.”

Neal stood and followed him to the door. “Peter…”

“Do your homework. All this —“ he motioned to the space between them. “— All this will have to wait until we find out if you can stay out permanently.”

“You mean, if we catch the Dutchman,” Neal clarified.

“Yeah.”

“We’ll catch him, Peter. I know we will.”

“I hope so,” Peter said. He squeezed Neal’s shoulder and leaned in for a quick peck on the lips. “I’m counting on you.”

“Between Burke and Caffrey, the Dutchman doesn’t have a chance,” Neal promised.

.

.

.


	5. After the First Case

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Neal and Peter catch the Dutchman, they need to have a little talk.

Peter herded Neal into his apartment with a firm hand on his shoulder and a mask of barely-contained anger on his face. Neal had hoped, when Peter first found him in the warehouse and accepted a cigar, that he wasn’t angry about Neal’s attempt to help the case. He’d smiled. He’d joked with Neal. He’d patted Neal’s knee when he joined him sitting on the desk, and his hand lingered for a moment longer than absolutely necessary. He’d even flirted a little, in that subtle way they’d been doing all week.

Clearly, he’d been wrong about Peter’s mood. Peter shoved him against the kitchen counter and got right into his personal space. 

“Don’t you ever do that again!” Peter hissed, his finger in Neal’s face. “You run, and I’m going to catch you, every time!” 

“I was trying to help,” Neal protested. He raised his hands to rest them on Peter’s chest. “We were on a deadline…” 

Peter batted Neal’s hands away and grabbed his head. He stared deeply into Neal’s eyes. “You scare me like that again…” 

“Scare you?” 

Instead of answering, Peter kissed him fiercely. They hadn’t kissed all week, not since June interrupted them in this same apartment. It felt wonderful. Peter was taking control, showing his possessiveness, and Neal ate it up. Peter unzipped his fly and slipped his hand inside, reaching for Neal’s dick, the other hand curled around the back of his neck. 

“Peter!” he gasped, baring his throat for Peter’s mouth. 

“I’m gonna fuck you so hard,” Peter growled against his skin, squeezing and twisting around his dick, making Neal feel faint. 

“Yes, Peter, yes!” Neal exclaimed, hanging on so he wouldn’t fall. 

“I’m gonna teach you who you belong to,” Peter continued, biting down hard through Neal’s shirt. Neal gasped at the pleasure that went along with the small spike of pain. “I’m gonna —“ 

“You know, one might want to check to see if one’s alone before engaging in illicit activities with Feds,” the familiar voice of Mozzie said from the shadows. Neal found himself pushed behind Peter, watching as Peter aimed his gun right at Mozzie, leaving the kiss in an instant of alertness and wariness. Neal had no idea how Peter managed to get his hand out of his pants and to his gun so quickly, but he figured it was some kind of FBI training. He hated guns, and hated when they were aimed at him or his friends even more, but a part of him was impressed. 

“Hands where I can see them,” Peter barked. 

“Peter, no, he’s a friend,” Neal protested, trying to reach around to lower Peter’s gun-arm. 

Peter didn’t respond, and Mozzie reluctantly stepped into the light. 

“I know you,” Peter said without moving his gun. “Haversham,” he added. “You gave Neal the tip about the warehouse.” 

“I neither confirm nor deny —“ 

“Moz, shut up. Peter, he’s my friend. I gave him a key.” It wasn’t exactly true, but Mozzie’s ability to pick locks would guarantee him entrance anywhere, let alone the door to Neal’s apartment that he only planned to lock when he was alone with Peter or doing something he didn’t want Peter to know about. He re-zipped his fly. 

Peter scowled but holstered his gun. “This isn’t over,” he said to Neal. He picked up his overcoat that had somehow ended up on the floor. He shrugged into the coat and headed for the door. 

“Wait. When will —“ 

“Seven,” Peter said, interrupting Neal. He walked out of the room, closing the door behind himself. 

“So that’s the infamous Suit,” Mozzie said. He sauntered over and clapped Neal on the shoulder. Neal winced, as he’d grabbed where Peter had bitten him, probably on purpose. 

“Shit, Moz, couldn’t you have gotten yourself out of here when you figured out what we were doing? Things were finally going in a good direction.” He poured wine for both of them. He wanted to whine, but held it together. 

“Forgive me for looking out for a friend,” Mozzie muttered. “I’m just trying to protect you. It’s not good to get involved with the Feds. In _any_ way.” 

“I think I’m in love with him,” Neal blurted. 

“What?” 

“I think —“ 

“No, no. I heard you. I was making an exclamation of disbelief. You can’t love him. He’s a Fed. A Suit. And need I remind you that he’s married? There’s no way this will end well.” 

“I’m not sure I care,” Neal replied, slipping around Mozzie. He loosened his tie and grabbed his glass of wine. 

“If you want the excitement of dating someone who’s married, there are much better prospects out there, even if I wouldn’t do it,” Mozzie continued. “Too much room for messiness. If you want to date a man, which I have no problems with, there are better prospects.” 

“It’s not about him being married or him being a man. It’s about him being him.” 

“I’m going on record that I disapprove,” Mozzie declared. 

“Noted,” Neal snapped. 

“Well?” 

“Well, what?” 

“You solved the case. Is he going to hold up his end of the deal? Are you free again?” 

“As free as the two miles this anklet allows.” Neal ran his fingers through his hair and looked around. “I think. He’ll find out in the morning and tell me. Come on, Moz, get out. I have to get some things ready for seven. There’s less than two hours until then.” 

“I will not help you have an affair with an FBI agent!” 

Neal rolled his eyes. “It’s not for me, it’s for his wife. He’s borrowing the roof patio for the evening to surprise her. It’s their anniversary.” 

Mozzie gave him a wide-eyed look of disbelief. “I don’t understand you. First you roll over and let Kate go without a fight, which totally goes against your character, then you start sleeping with a Fed, then you help him seduce his wife? What’s going on, Neal? What aren’t you telling me?” 

Neal sighed and looked up at the heavens as if for strength or inspiration. “I’m not sleeping with him yet,” he finally said. 

“Why don’t I believe you?” 

“Because you think everyone’s lying to you?” Neal suggested. 

“True.” 

“Listen, this is really important to me. More important than finding Kate. More important than getting this anklet off.” 

“More important than the anklet?” he finally asked. “I mean, I’m glad you’re not going after Kate. She dumped you, twice. But this…” 

“As long as I’m wearing the anklet, I’m connected to Peter. That’s four years to convince him and Elizabeth to make this arrangement work long-term. I’ve got to do it right. I can’t make it a con, because he’ll smell it a mile away. I can’t make it a game. I have to be real, be me.” Neal sipped his wine distractedly. “I’m not sure I know who that is anymore.” 

“Why him?” Mozzie asked. 

“I don’t know. But when I’m around him… I want to be more than I am. I want to be better. I want him to approve of me.” 

“Sounds more like a father-figure than a lover,” Mozzie pointed out. 

“Yeah, he’s older. But that’s not what it’s about.” They sat drinking wine for a minute, not looking at each other. “We’ve been writing letters back and forth for close to four years,” Neal admitted. “Some of them are damned close to love letters.” 

“You think he’s in love with you?” 

Neal shook his head. “Maybe. I don’t know. I hope so.” He sighed. “Everything’s just, just _brighter_ when I’m around him.” 

“Man, you’ve got it bad,” Mozzie said. 

“Yeah,” Neal agreed. 


End file.
